


Timeless

by Thegaygumballmachine



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: But I hear they have cookies, Consensual mind control??, Dark!Hilda, F/F, Funky little witch lesbians, Roleplay, Sibling Incest, Spellcest, i am in fact taking up residence in hell, let’s not forget:, mind control kind of?, so let’s kick it, zelda’s a kinky little bitch we all know this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-09 06:58:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17402171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thegaygumballmachine/pseuds/Thegaygumballmachine
Summary: Hilda lights her cigarette. The lamplight flickers, then dies. She crosses her legs, takes a long drag, and speaks on the curl of smoke.“I want to fuck you.”





	1. an exercise in suspension

**Author's Note:**

> Satan, this is such a fever dream. Unbeta’d because none of my friends understand my spellcest cravings, but if you’re willing to be a beta for me, I’d love one. 
> 
> This story contains gay incest sex!! You have been sufficiently warned!
> 
> There may or may not be a follow up chapter in the works. Will post if there’s interest.

Hilda’s wearing a suit and holding a cigarette when Zelda gets home.

She’s late. They agreed it. Her prepared excuse is slow to her lips, and she lets it fall away, thinks it might be better if she doesn’t try to justify herself.

Wordlessly, she pours a glass of scotch from her best bottle, raises it halfheartedly toward Hilda and tosses it back. Hilda doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. She doesn’t even acknowledge Zelda’s presence beyond gesturing to the chair across from her.

This is the arrangement. For one night, she will play the part. They will indulge Zelda’s fantasy together, and then, tomorrow, they’ll talk.

Zelda’s legs aren’t the strongest they’ve ever been. She sinks into the armchair with mild relief.

This, tonight, exists somewhere else. It feels dreamlike in its stillness. Rain punishes the ground outside, but here, in their ancient, learned house, everything is quiet - waiting.

The clocks have ceased to tick.

Hilda lights her cigarette. The lamplight flickers, then dies. She crosses her legs, takes a long drag, and speaks on the curl of smoke.

“I want to fuck you.”

Her accent is thicker for that want, and she’s put effort into making her tone darker. Zelda swallows hard, pushes an errant strand of hair from her eye, and tries to sit up straight.

She hadn’t thought Hilda had it in her, that vulgarity. It hits right between her legs, and she has to bite her lip to keep from vocalizing it, coming away with the cloying, chemical taste of her lipstick and an acute sense of vulnerability. Hilda stands, crosses to the window. She puffs out another breath, and it burns - laced sharply with nicotine. The taste disgusts her, Zelda knows, yet she acts like she’s been doing this for years without so much as a cough, and that’s far more attractive than the act itself deserves.

Hilda turns. The moonlight paints her in half-silhouette. Her gaze is pure sex in a way she should not know how to be.

“I think you want it too, don’t you? Take that jacket off for me.”

She flicks her wrist and Zelda’s hair comes undone from its tight styling. With shaking hands, she tucks away the pins, shrugs off her coat.

“Yes,” she whispers. Hilda smiles, and it is not sweet.

 

——

 

She asked for this. She _begged_ for it.

That doesn’t make it any less difficult to reconcile, this new, unreadable version of Hilda. She is Zelda’s every dream, but she isn’t her sister, isn’t who she knows, and that’s hard to get past.

She’s working the buttons on her suit jacket, toying with the silk, and that’s the only tell that she isn’t perfectly composed - Zelda clings to the barely-there tremble in her movement like a lifeline, treats it as a reminder of how very out of her element Hilda truly is. Her gaze is heated and kind in equal measure, and the smallest hint of a smile graces Hilda’s lips before she slips back into character, stubbing the cigarette on the windowsill and vanishing it with another fluid motion.

“You’ve been very naughty, haven’t you darling?”

It’s how she used to talk to Sabrina when she was a child. Condescendingly sweet. There’s a little something extra to it, a gleam in her eye that suggests a far more enjoyable punishment to those their niece endured - Zelda’s shudder is entirely involuntary, and the chuckle that comes into the room is so dark, so full, that her eyes flutter shut with the weight of it. She hears the cold click of heels against wood, and then Hilda’s hands press into her shoulders, encouraging her down and back, still inherently gentle in her manner.

“I asked you a question,” she whispers, directly into Zelda’s ear, and she didn’t think they were quite that close, and Hilda’s breath over her skin actually makes her moan.

She’s playing it like a character in one of her trashy novels, and Zelda hates that she’s falling for it, hates that she wants it. Shame casts her cheeks in garish pink.

“What,” she replies, as close to her usual drawl as she can get with the obvious tremor in her voice, “would you have me confess to you?”

She forces herself to look again. If she didn’t, she might confuse this with the Hilda of reality, the Hilda that makes love to her, sweet and soft and always, always innocent.

This Hilda fucks, and unapologetically at that. Zelda swallows an embarrassingly desperate whine as she registers the deep plum of her lipstick, and the alien smirk it draws across her face.

Every difference calculated. Every reaction accounted for.

“Anything at all, sister.”

Magic plays at Zelda’s legs, raises the hair there like static. It’s got a playful energy, nothing forceful yet - she spreads them of her own accord, and Hilda hums her satisfaction. Invisible hands tug at her blouse, slide through her hair, dishevel her with ease. Hilda makes herself at home in her lap.

Zelda’s head falls back as Hilda’s lips suck lazily at the column of her throat. Her hand splays out where neck meets chest, and Zelda wonders, not for the first time, whether she might take her revenge tonight. The thought labors her breath; it’s only a passing fancy, she still trusts Hilda implicitly, but Zelda’s given her _so much power,_ and it’s intoxicating to imagine what she could do with it.

“I’ve been good _,_ ” she whispers, and Hilda bites at her collarbone, cups her breast with a rough hand.

“I don’t believe you.”

Nor should she. Zelda tends to deal in anything but the truth.

 

——

 

Zelda loses the thread of coherent thought under Hilda’s insistent touch. Her lips form the syllables of infinite beginnings, but she can’t manage a single actualized sound.

“I can take what I want.”

Tendrils of Hilda caress the edges of Zelda’s mind as a finger trails up her thigh.

“I’d rather you gave it to me.”

It would be blessedly easy to let her look.

That thought doesn’t belong to Zelda, but it’s familiar enough that it almost could.

Her breath catches. Hilda finds her mark, magicks the lace away. Her smile is feral at the slickness she feels.

 

——

“I won’t.”

She hates saying it. Hilda loves hearing it. Her voice shakes with lust.

“Oh, dear,” Hilda says, shaking her head exaggeratedly, “I’m very disappointed in you.”

The words hurt, but it’s good, so good. She needs that, _craves_ it. Needs Hilda to tear into her so she doesn’t have to do it herself. She digs her nails into her thighs and hisses with the pain, chest heaving.

She feels the press of foreign power in her thoughts, gives a throaty gasp at the sensation of it. Hilda is everywhere, everything at once. Zelda can barely keep up.

“Harder,” she pants, “harder, Hilda, _fuck._ ”

“Greedy, you are. Bad, bad girl.”

Hilda says it with the air of finalizing an appointment, or reading out the books. She curls her fingers just so, and Zelda loses herself in unholy ecstasy.

 

——

 

It feels like days before she comes back to herself. Her breath is thready, her eyes glassy - it’s very obvious on her, what they’ve just done. Hilda remains perfectly composed.

“Hey. Look at me.”

It takes her longer than it should, but she does, and she’s drowning in all that earnest blue. Hilda’s face is drawn tight, lips pursed, but she says nothing; instead, she tilts Zelda’s chin up with two fingers and kisses her, careful, slow. Some of the urgency seeps out of it, and the woman Zelda grew up with peeks through in her concern.

_Are you alright? Really?_

She doesn’t say it, but Zelda hears the thought as clearly as her own, hums against the kiss.

_More than._

The grandfather clock chimes ten. Hilda sighs, long and low, and pulls back just a bit to return Zelda’s hair to some semblance of order. Her fingers sweep delicately across flushed cheeks, and that sweetness returns to her in waves.

“There you are,” she whispers. Her hold relaxes, her face softens, and Zelda knows the moment is past.

She thumbs across Hilda’s bottom lip, gives a tired smile.

The house is done waiting.

“There you are.”


	2. a question of fantasy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mix equal parts angst, fluff, and backstory in a large bowl. Add a pinch of Spellman dysfunction, and leave to sit in google drive untouched for several weeks. 
> 
> Serve hot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a. I tend to give Zelda French newspapers. I was just there, and I was fascinated by the political climate. I firmly believe she was a Parisian painter in another life (or maybe another century).
> 
> b. Thanks to Stella for putting up with my rants about MLA language formatting and other hopefully more interesting topics. Thanks to Lydia for getting my ass in gear and driving me to actually post this. 
> 
> (Pick whatever Bon Jovi song you’re into. This was written to Raise Your Hands.)

It’s interesting, really, the confidence their so-called tryst has given Hilda.

She’s spent the better part of her life suppressing her more volatile gifts. None of them had ever known a witch who could manipulate a person’s concept of reality like Hilda can; it put terror in Mama’s eyes once she fully came into her power, when she began to do more than simply read emotion and thought. Zelda pretended to be afraid, too, and for the most part, she was, but there was always an edge of _else_ beneath it, something she couldn’t explain.

Together, they shamed her into hiding it away, called her a freak and a horror and a host of other names. It wasn’t the first time Zelda tore Hilda down, told her she’d never amount to anything - she’d been doing it since they’d first met, lifetimes ago, when Hilda had arrived fresh off a London ship, lovely and sweet and terribly naive, to be everything Zelda was decidedly _not._

The cardinal difference - Mama hadn’t joined her before, hadn’t agreed with her. Mama wasn’t especially concerned with their spats, not until the day Hilda came home carrying on about how she could make anyone happy, truly happy, if she tried hard enough and wouldn’t they like to see?

She remembers a time, back when they were young and Greendale was younger, that flowers would poke up through the floorboards to meet Hilda’s optimism.

Zelda regrets so much of their childhood. Will likely spend the rest of her life trying to make up for her adolescent biases.

 Mama always called it a crime to let the youngest have the authority in any house.

_“If she’s stronger than you, Zelda, you’ll never have anything.”_

It is only now, after she let Hilda overpower her and found more peace in it than she’s felt in the last century, that she thinks she has everything.

——

Though Hilda’s still wary of letting herself take advantage of it freely, she’s begun to warm to the idea of using her gift (a word she hates, and still won’t entertain) to tease Zelda incessantly.

It starts small - a cold hand trailing down her back when she’s reading in the parlor, a phantom kiss to her palm as Sabrina whines about the mortal boy. Little gestures to show that she’s there, that she’s paying attention to Zelda rather than whatever else she might be doing. It comforts her and sets her on edge in the same breath, and she can’t definitively decide whether she enjoys it or not.

Zelda assumes she’s doing it because she can. Exercising her newfound freedom.

She’s very wrong about that.

——

There’s something about the first day of sunlight after a brutal snow that witches in particular can best appreciate. They call it Gaia’s blessing; watching the sleet and ice melt away under the pink and gold of the new morning has a certain magic to it all its own.  

The day has a touch of liveliness, an upbeat tone that rarely, if ever, enters into a Spellman morning. Their breakfasts are generally fairly quiet, without Sabrina’s influence. Zelda prefers it that way, but even she can see the appeal a morning like this holds; her family is getting along, and they’re all in good spirits, a feat that is increasingly rare given recent events.

Ambrose and Sabrina debate the logistics of a hypothetical spell over toast and jam. Hilda washes last night’s dishes, humming some mortal song as Salem twines around her legs. Zelda has a far-left paper from the south of France between her and the rest of the table, and it’s rather depressing, the state of the country she once had such high hopes for. She isn’t smoking, not now - it was a surprise to all of them when she finally heeded Hilda’s wishes and worked to keep her habit from their shared meals, and she thinks she might be going a tad soft, but the effusive thanks she gets for the continued effort is worth every moment.

“Name one time I messed up and didn’t fix it,” says Sabrina, indignant as always.

Ambrose snorts. Zelda shakes her head, turns the page on a huff.

 “Okay, maybe not the best example, but-”

“Do not finish that sentence, cousin.”

——

Hilda glances at her over a particularly recalcitrant plate. She drums her fingers on the countertop, draws them across it in languid patterns. Zelda feels it on her hip, light, looping touches. Her exhale is far sharper than the violent demonstrations in Paris really deserve, and Ambrose is staring at her over his tea.

In an instant, the children are gone, her paper is gone, and her hands are full of her sister instead, breath rapid and wanton across her lips. She isn’t humming anymore, but the same song plays from the radio louder than is strictly necessary, and Zelda recognizes it now. She instinctively pulls her closer, runs her hands through impossibly soft curls, and Hilda smiles crookedly, kisses her quick. 

“Bon Jovi? Really now, I thought we were past this.”

“Oh, get off your high horse.”

Hilda mouths along her jaw, fumbles with the buttons on her dress. Zelda is overwhelmed with the scent of fresh rosemary. It feels like 1989.

She blinks, and things are as they were. Her hands are shaking enough that she can’t make out a word of the article she’s trying so valiantly to focus on. Flustered, she closes the paper altogether and sets it down as slowly as she can manage.

Her fingers ache for something, some _one_ , to hold.

Hilda catches her eye and winks.

 ——

 “ _Gilets Jaunes_ up to anything interesting?”

Ambrose’s gaze is decidedly mocking. He palms a scone as he passes.

“Macron’s given them everything,” she says. Her tone is stable, if cold. “Spineless man. He’s giving no thought to the future.”

 “Ah _, c’est dommage._ I was just starting to get invested.”

——

They don’t see each other again until the sun has long set, and the frost long melted. Hilda has to mind the store, and Zelda the house. It’s quieter in Leticia’s absence, but never so quiet as that night they shared in the in-between, when she felt as if the only sounds in the world were those Hilda drew from her.

She’s sitting at the vanity, near the end of her nightly ritual; the scarlet staining her lips all that remains of the day. Hilda doesn’t knock - she hasn’t needed to for some time. There may only be one bed in this room now, but it’s still unequivocally _theirs._ She appears in the mirror with a winning smile, but her eyes are tired, her posture weary.

It’s almost domestic, the way they kiss. Chaste. She’s been chewing gum, and Zelda can taste it, rankles at the flavor that masquerades itself as strawberry. 

She’s humming again. Zelda can’t place the tune. She rubs her creams in while Hilda watches, a certain fondness to her stance.

“Music is really just poetry put to rhythm,” she says. She traces along Zelda’s arm with her nails, the same loose circles from the counter. They meet eyes in the mirror.

“Tell that to Jon Bon Jovi.”

 ——

She’s been staring at her reflection for longer than she can count. Watching Hilda watching her, the vaguest hint of concern blooming across her face. 

“Come to bed, Zelds.” 

Hilda’s hands move to her shoulders, start to work the tension gathered there. Her internal conflict quiets, but does not subside.

“That was quite the trick earlier,” she says. Slowly, she leans her head back, rests it against Hilda’s chest. Watches her falter in the glass.

“Too much?”

She doesn’t know. Can’t decide. A powerful sigh moves through her, and she works to articulate, to bring voice to what she’s feeling. Never her strongest suit, though Hilda has been helping.

“It’s a question of fantasy,” she murmurs. Blunt nails dig into her shoulders, and she closes her eyes against the fear in Hilda’s. It sticks uncomfortably in her throat.

She stands eventually, laces their fingers together and bites her tongue on the explanation she doesn’t know how to give. Hilda’s gaze is searching, worried.

She is a work of art; fragile, haunted, entirely breathtaking.

“Let’s talk about it in the morning, hm?”

“Zelda…”

“I’m tired, Hilda.”

She’s so quiet and so open that Hilda can’t seem to deny her. They stand there in limbo almost longer than Zelda can take, and then she nods, short and stiff.

“I’ll just… I’ll be there in a minute.” She smiles, and Zelda knows how fake it is, sees the crushing insecurity in it like she put it there herself.

That can of worms is too much for tonight.

——

Hilda bustles about for her robe and gown and Zelda fails not to think.

Perhaps things would’ve been different if she’d been more authoritative. The Hilda she loves now is different from the one she loved then, but her inexperience is the same. She doesn’t know the lines, doesn’t understand how to find them.

There is so much newness in her life, so much change. Their balance seems more delicate than ever, and guilt plagues Zelda’s mind, threatening to swell into something dark and dangerous.

Hilda slips carefully between the sheets, and she is more vulnerable than she’s been since they were very young. Zelda thinks of daisies and new roses, and marvels at the stretch of time.

“I’m sorry,” Hilda ventures, soft and unsure, and she can’t think of anything to say to that, so she holds her close, kisses her forehead.

Tentatively, they settle. Hilda turns, Zelda pulls the sheets up, and they find their rhythm, as they always do. It’s familiar, all of it, and Zelda luxuriates in the comfort of Hilda’s heartbeat, steady and strong. In time, she relaxes, though it isn’t enough. It never is on nights like these.

The voice in her head takes on the smooth, shadowy tones of their mother’s. Try as she might, it won’t leave her be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know how happy I am with this. Let me know what you think! Comments keep me writing ;)

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are my lifeblood... xx


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